Ryan Lockwood - Below

“Who brought the goddamn Mexican in here?”

Sturman slammed the cue stick forward and broke the tight formation with a loud crack, then stood and turned to see what Cody was talking about as two balls dropped. Near the door stood Joe Montoya, looking around the room. He noticed Sturman and headed his way.

“It’s that cop, isn’t it?”

“Easy, Cody. That cop is my friend. We were in the service together.”

Cody glowered, but he kept his mouth shut as Joe neared. Sturman pulled his hat brim down and wondered why Joe would show up at Steve’s wake. Joe already knew every damn member of Steve’s family was a bigot.

“Hey, Montoya. What’s up?”

“I’m very sorry to come here. I realize this is bad timing, but can we talk for a minute, Sturman?”

“Cody, why don’t you play with Hank? I’m gonna go talk to him for a minute.”

Sturman and Joe slid into a booth on the far side of the bar. Sturman signaled Jill for two beers, then studied his friend’s face.

“This must be important, Montoya.” Sturman grinned. “You know how much this crowd likes folks with brown skin… and how they adore the law.”

Joe smiled. “I hear you. But this is important. Listen—your biologist friend came in to the coroner’s. She saw Steve, and we showed her the body of that immigrant I told you about… the one who died in the ocean a few weeks ago when trying to cross over.”

Sturman stopped raising the glass of beer to his lips and set the beer down. His expression tightened. “And?”

“She thinks they both showed signs of being attacked by those squid. She said it’s hard for her to tell, since she hasn’t examined human bodies before, but she said the injuries look consistent with the biology of a Humboldt squid. Also, the shark expert who came in wrote off any shark species as a possible cause of death.”

Sturman sat quietly for a moment. “Anyone else know about this?”

“Not yet.”

“You going to tell anyone?”

“No. Not now. I’m not sure yet how we want to handle such a bizarre situation.”

“Goddammit, Montoya. There are people right in this room who make their living scuba diving. Many of them go out at night.”

“I know, Sturman. Tell them not to go diving right now… but you should probably make something up. I doubt they’ll believe you if you tell them the truth anyway.”

“When you going to tell the press—make an announcement ?”

“Once my boss has a chance to look this over. We don’t want to cause an unnecessary panic. These were isolated incidents, after all.”

“You’d be comfortable with another ‘isolated incident’?”

“That’s not fair. This isn’t my call anyway.”

“So after the sheriff’s office announces this, then what?”

“I don’t know. We’ll probably make some recommendations to prevent it from happening again. Which brings me to my next point. You and Dr. Martell are going to be heading out again after—”

“Hey, you! You, vato !”

Two bigger bikers were heading toward the booth. The shorter one, in the front, wore a black leather vest that showed off a tapestry of tattoos running down muscular arms. He was weaving as he walked. Sturman had met him before, maybe while drinking with Steve, but couldn’t remember his name.

“Yeah, you, boy. What the fuck you doin’ here? Steve don’t want no wetbacks at his wake.”

Joe watched them come. “Back off, guys. I’m a cop. I’m not here for trouble.”

“You ain’t a cop in here, wetback. You got two seconds to get the fuck out or I’m gonna rip your head off.”

“Sturman, I better go. We can talk about this more later.” Joe stood and raised his hands. “Easy, boys, I’m leaving.”

“Who you calling boy ?”

Joe stopped walking toward the door and turned back to the biker. Having spent years with him in the Navy, Sturman wasn’t surprised.

“You— boy ,” Joe said. “I said I was leaving, boy. ”

The muscular biker lunged at Joe. Joe ducked underneath the sucker punch that came flying at the side of his head. The momentum carried them both over, and an instant later they were heaped on the floor, with Joe on the bottom.

The second, taller biker moved toward the two men on the floor. As he rushed past the booth, Sturman kicked his leg out, tripping him. The man stumbled and crashed into the next booth, but didn’t go down. When he turned to face his attacker, Sturman was already on his feet. Before the biker could cock his arm all the way back, Sturman’s fist slammed into the man’s cheek with a loud smack. That was all it took. The biker crumpled to the floor unconscious, toppling a bar stool on the way down. By now, everybody in the bar was looking over at the commotion.

Sturman moved to help Joe with the shorter biker, who had straddled him on the floor and started raining punches down. Before Sturman could get there, Joe bucked with his hips and managed to roll on top of the biker. Joe head-butted his opponent in the face and the man rolled to his stomach, covering his face with his hands. Joe forced a forearm around the man’s neck and latched into a rear choke. Ten seconds later, the man went limp and Joe dumped him to the floor.

As Sturman reached down to help Joe up, he saw that other bikers were headed their way now, including Cody.

“We better get the fuck outta here, amigo. These guys are dangerous, and they’re not in the best mood.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Sturman and Joe sat on a bench a half-mile from The Lighthouse. Joe finished cleaning up his bloody nose while Sturman enjoyed the cool breeze as he came down from the adrenaline high. They had scuffled with a few more of the bikers’ friends in the parking lot. Sturman had a big cut on his lip, but couldn’t figure out how it had gotten there.

“Thanks for getting us out of there, Sturman. I owe you one.”

“You already owed me one.”

“I mean it. Those guys meant business.”

“Just like the bars in Thailand, huh?”

“Yeah. Those were the days, weren’t they?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in a good scrap. You gonna get some backup and go arrest those bastards ?”

“Nah. Those guys are pricks, but they’ve had a rough enough day, and you just embarrassed them in front of Steve’s friends. I can let it slide. Hey, man, I’m sorry to ruin that for you. Steve’s wake.”

“It’s all right. Never liked most of Steve’s friends, anyway.”

“Maria wouldn’t want you hanging out with that bunch.”

Sturman set his jaw and glared at Joe. “Don’t talk about her now.”

“You gotta talk about her sometime, Will. And for Christ’s sake, don’t fucking tell me I can’t talk about my own sister.”

The men sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the waterfront at night: muffled music and voices from nearby bars; a cool, steady breeze ruffling the palms overhead; distant traffic on the freeway. The blaring sound of a semi-trailer truck using its jake brakes reminded Sturman of the night he had lost his wife.

“Jesus, Sturman. What happened to your face?”

He smiled at Val from the stern of his boat, wincing slightly as the scabbed-over cut on his lower lip opened again. Val had just come down the dock and was standing beside Maria. The sun had just set.

“Fell off my bike.”

Val shook her head. “Men. Really—what happened?”

“Steve’s wake.”

“What? You mean you got in a fight at your friend’s funeral?”

Sturman touched his lip. “At his wake. In a bar. And I didn’t start it.”

“My God. You didn’t start it. Well, you smell like alcohol. Have you been drinking today?”